George Herbert Walker Bush: A Penguin Life [NOOK Book]

Overview

No one is more qualified to give a fully rounded, objective portrait of our forty-first president than Tom Wicker. A political correspondent for The New York Times for more than thirty years, Wicker was a first-hand witness to and reporter of George H. W. Bush’s political rise and presidential reign. In George Herbert Walker Bush, Wicker provides a richly drawn and succinct overview of Bush from his New England roots, his decorated service in World War II, and his successful oil businesses to his shift to ...
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George Herbert Walker Bush: A Penguin Life

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Overview

No one is more qualified to give a fully rounded, objective portrait of our forty-first president than Tom Wicker. A political correspondent for The New York Times for more than thirty years, Wicker was a first-hand witness to and reporter of George H. W. Bush’s political rise and presidential reign. In George Herbert Walker Bush, Wicker provides a richly drawn and succinct overview of Bush from his New England roots, his decorated service in World War II, and his successful oil businesses to his shift to politics and rapid rise within the Republican party. As he describes changes within the Republican party in recent decades, Wicker charts Bush’s career, including in-depth analysis of his campaign tactics and his gift for creating friendships and inspiring loyalty which, Wicker argues, has been the key to Bush’s success. The result is a fascinating, timely glimpse into one of the most powerful families in America today, complete with insights into the current reign of George W. Bush, the continued legacy of the Bush family, and contemporary American politics. 



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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
The opening anecdote sets the tone for this uncomplimentary brief bio: Wicker recounts a visit by an (unnamed) friend to the post-presidential office of George H.W. Bush in Houston. The two men share an hour of purposeless small talk, prompting the friend and the author to reflect that the visit is a microcosm of the life of Bush, who seemed to have no strong purpose other than "a burning desire to become president." The rest of Wicker's biography sketches Bush as a man with the faults and virtues of his patrician background: loyalty, gregariousness, personal modesty, intense competitiveness, a shallow mind and a deep sense of entitlement. His credentials for the White House, Wicker notes, were scanty; the author dismisses Bush's impressive-looking r sum (two-term congressman, U.N. ambassador, CIA director, GOP chairman, Reagan's vice-president) as padded with thankless jobs proffered by presidents who found him harmless and pliable. He credits Bush with two impressive acts: daring to recommend resignation to President Nixon (before the entire cabinet, no less) at the climax of the Watergate scandal and forging the global coalition that drove the armies of Saddam Hussein from Kuwait in 1991 a feat of diplomacy, Wicker notes, made possible by Bush's lifelong skill at befriending practically everyone. But veteran journalist Wicker faults Bush for what the author categorizes as a readiness to alter positions for political advantage and repeated use of "low blows" to attack electoral opponents like Bob Dole and Michael Dukakis (behavior that, he claims, Bush would never have tolerated on the tennis court). For those who lived through the Bush years, the story Wicker tells is a familiar one, here usefully if briefly summarized; for others, this account will provide a handy starting point for further study of the Bush legacy. Agent, David Black. (May) Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
A readable life, at once respectful and critical, of Bush I, who nursed "what must have been a burning desire to become president of the United States" without formulating any particular plans for what he'd do once he got the job. Novelist/historian Wicker (Easter Lily, 1998, etc.) bookends his Dwight D. Eisenhower (2002) with this study of Bush pere, who, like Ike, "did not offer himself as a proponent of certain issues or of a definite ideology or of any particular policy-such as, say, helping most Americans achieve affordable health care." Yet, Wicker observes, Bush fought hard to attain office, and fought hard for much of the privilege that would accrue to his children, including the current president. Though he may have been born, in Ann Richards's famous quip, with a "silver foot in his mouth," Bush was no stranger to hard work, and Wicker's account gives reason to admire his accomplishments as a businessman who carved out a small empire for himself in the oil fields of West Texas, to say nothing of his bravery in combat during WWII. Wicker is less inclined to admire Bush's political career, however; confronted with a notoriously hard-right Texas Republican Party in the age of Goldwater, Bush betrayed his moderate inclinations and "moved almost as far to the right as was Goldwater himself," denouncing civil rights and then cluelessly wondering why Texas's black voters did not embrace him. Bush's subsequent appointments to diplomatic and civil service postings in places such as Beijing and Langley were uneventful, Wicker writes, and his spot on the Reagan ticket was a matter of political expediency; Reagan had to be lobbied hard to endorse Bush's candidacy once the Gipper's two termswere up. In office, Bush accomplished almost nothing and couldn't seem to offer any reason for voters to return him to office-and so they didn't. In the end, Wicker offers little more than "a nice man with good connections": perhaps not the worst president, though the acorn doesn't fall far from the oak.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781440650192
  • Publisher: Penguin Group (USA)
  • Publication date: 5/3/2004
  • Sold by: Penguin Group
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 240
  • Sales rank: 1,197,742
  • File size: 245 KB

Meet the Author

Tom Wicker covered American politics at The New York Times from 1960 to the early 1990s, when he succeeded Arthur Krock as writer of the “In the Nation” column. He is the author of several books of nonfiction, including One of Us: Richard Nixon and the American Dream, and JFK and LBJ, as well as several novels.


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Read an Excerpt

prologue
NOT LONG AFTER George Herbert Walker Bush, the forty-first president of the United States, left office in 1993 and returned to Texas, an old acquaintance found himself at loose ends in Houston. Out of courtesy and curiosity, he called on the former president at his retirement office in the city's federal building.

Cordially and immediately, as befitted long association, the old acquaintance was ushered into a replica of the president's Oval Office in the White House. George Bush, known to family and friends as "Poppy," sat smiling behind a huge executive desk on which there was not a scrap of paper—not a note, a letter, or even a message slip.

While the two men chatted inconsequentially, the former president with his usual grace and friendliness, the phone never rang; no buzzer disturbed the conversation; no secretary or clerk opened the door; no request or notice of any kind was placed on the empty desktop. Their talk of old times was interrupted only when Bush escorted his visitor to a window and pointed out a house he and the former first lady were building in a nearby Houston neighborhood.

"Well, Mister President," Bush's friend finally thought it proper to say, "I just wanted to say hello, but now I'm afraid I'm taking too much of your time."

"No, no!" his host exclaimed. "You're not taking too much time at all. I'm really enjoying our conversation."

Whereupon the old acquaintance stayed for another session of pleasant small talk, during which— again—no sign of any other activity appeared in the ersatz Oval Office. It finally dawned on the visitor that the former president of the United States could take so much time with himbecause—like thousands of former executives who had retired full of years and honor—he had nothing else to do. But surely a man who had spent most of his life in high government office, including a term in the White House—who had in fact presided over the end of the Cold War—must have many ideas and plans, now that his time was his own?

Many years before, the old friend remembered, he and George H. W. Bush had served together on the board of trustees of Phillips Andover Academy, of which they were alumni. During their long joint tenure, the man who would later be president was popular, a helpful figure to his colleagues, supportive of their ideas, willing to take on any task asked of him, doing such jobs well—but he had put forth not a single serious proposal of his own, or any weighty opinion, or even a significant statement. On the Andover board Bush had not seemed to want or need to do anything in particular for the school; he had offered no plans to improve its performance or the lives of its students—just as now, in the Houston Oval Office, behind the clean desk, the former president seemed to have nothing urgent on his mind.

As the visitor finally departed, despite hearty exhortations to stay and talk some more, he could not help wondering if that pleasant hour and his memories from Andover suggested a sort of caretaker mentality—if during George H. W. Bush's life and presidency he had seldom had stronger purposes than he had disclosed on the Andover board, or revealed needs more pressing than maintaining gracious relations with his friends—except, of course, what must have been a burning desire to become president of the United States.

chapter one
GEORGE HERBERT WALKER BUSH* based his presidential campaigns on his extensive résumé as a leader of experience and character. Like Dwight D. Eisenhower before him, Bush, as was pointed out by the historian Michael Beschloss, did not offer himself as a proponent of certain issues or of a definite ideology or of any particular policy—such as, say, helping most Americans achieve affordable health care.1

In a long prepresidential political career, Bush often used family and political connections to accumulate the experience that supposedly qualified him for the White House. Despite an almost sacrificial devotion to the Republican Party, he sometimes exhibited chameleonlike changes of coloration within its spectrum of opinion, and never overcame the suspicions of its most conservative elements. Throughout Bush's political life, however, his willingness to take on even thankless jobs and his ability to do them well, together with his gift for friendship and his loyalty to the countless friends he had made and kept— sometimes to the point of political risk—lay at the core of his achievement. George Bush, the public man, was preeminently the product of family, friendship, his sense of loyalty, his capacity for service—and the patronage of three presidents.

Bush's patrician background, combined with his propensity for verbal stumbles (once, when recalling being shot down over the Pacific during World War II, he concluded: "Lemme tell ya, that'll make you start to think about the separation of church and state"2), earned him from Governor Ann Richards of Texas in 1992 the stinging remark that he had been born with "a silver foot in his mouth." Four years later Bush got revenge of a sort when his son George W. Bush defeated Richards's reelection attempt. But the foot was silver indeed; Bush's father was Senator Prescott Bush, Republican of Connecticut, formerly president of Buckeye Steel Castings Co. in Ohio, later a vice president of the New York brokerage firm Brown Brothers Harriman, a founder of the USO during World War II, a president of the U.S. Golf Association, and a frequent golfing companion of President Eisenhower.

In 1921 Prescott Bush married Dorothy Walker, the daughter of George H. Walker, a wealthy businessman, sports enthusiast, and founder of the Walker Cup for golfers. Dorothy was a tennis champion herself and the favored daughter in a highly competitive family. As Mrs. Prescott Bush, she became the mother of five children, the second and favorite of whom, born January 12, 1924, was George Herbert Walker Bush (named for "Dottie's" hard-charging father). George Bush grew up steeped in sports in Greenwich, Connecticut, and spent most summers even more deeply immersed in sports (land and water) at grandfather George H. Walker's 176-acre estate on the seashore at Kennebunkport, Maine.

Not unnaturally, therefore, grandson George H. W. Bush "prepped" at Andover, intending to follow his father to Yale. But after the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941 ("a date that will live in infamy," President Franklin Roosevelt intoned when asking Congress for a declaration of war), seventeen- year-old George ignored whatever family tradition and connections might have done for him. On his eighteenth birthday, January 12, 1942, he was sworn into the U.S. Navy, in a speedup program to train flyers. After earning his wings in less than a year, he became the youngest aviator in the navy.

More than two years later, on September 7, 1944, after Bush had flown numerous missions off the baby flattop San Jacinto, his torpedo bomber took a solid hit while flying through heavy flak to attack the island of Chichi Jima. Bush dropped his bomb load to complete the mission, then kept the clumsy old Avenger briefly aloft—long enough to give the crew a chance to bail out. But one of them was trapped aboard; another's chute failed to open; and in the end, like Ishmael, Bush "escaped alone to tell thee." Two hours later his raft was fished out of the water by the submarine Finback; typically, he reports in a campaign biography, even aboard the Finback, "I made friendships that have lasted a lifetime."3

Bush's war was not yet over. He rejoined his squadron in the Philippines for three more months of combat missions (he logged a total of fifty-eight for the war), and finally, in December 1944—three years after Pearl Harbor—was sent home wearing the Distinguished Flying Cross. A few months later, soon after American A-bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki ended the war in the summer of 1945, he was a civilian again.

Demobilization meant much the same to George Bush as to millions of other young Americans who had fought and survived the "good war"—college on the GI Bill (in his case, Yale in September 1945), enjoying civilian life, and marriage. Two weeks after his return to the States, Bush married an old girlfriend, Barbara Pierce (his downed plane had been named "Barbara") in Rye, New York. Their union has lasted for fifty-seven years and produced six children* (including two sons who became state governors: George junior of Texas, sworn in as the forty-third president of the United States in 2001, and Jeb of Florida).

After getting his "ruptured duck" (a pin signifying a discharged veteran) in the summer of 1945, Bush finally matriculated at Yale. As might have been expected from his family heritage, he excelled in athletics (as captain and first baseman of the college baseball team that played for but lost the national title in 1947 and 1948) and was chosen for the exclusive social society Skull and Bones; he also did well in his studies, being elected to Phi Beta Kappa. He and Barbara could celebrate the birth of George junior, their first child, in July 1946; they "made some close and lasting friendships" while living off campus in New Haven;4 and they seem to have avoided the liberal activism that so frustrated George's fellow student William F. Buckley Jr.

Bush then joined many another young World War II veteran as part of a significant postwar migration out of the cities into the suburbs, and from the old northern industrial belt into the South and West. At much the same time, thousands of blacks—superseded by the mechanical cotton-picking machine—were moving in the other direction: out of the sharecrop South into old industrial cities like Detroit, Chicago, and Baltimore. The major long-term results of these contramigrations included changes in the nature of such cities, including the growth of black ghettos, and the gradual transformation of the old "Solid South," a Democratic stronghold since Reconstruction following the Civil War, into first a two-party and ultimately a new Republican "Solid South."

After graduation from Yale, Bush decided not to apply for a Rhodes Scholarship on the strange grounds that his small family could not afford to live in England (although he had three thousand dollars5 in savings from the navy, a not inconsiderable sum in the forties). If this meant that he did not want to call on Bush or Walker family wealth, neither did he turn easily to family business connections. After Procter & Gamble, the big soap company, turned him down, he declined an opportunity to work with his father (and the prominent Democrat Averell Harriman) at Brown Brothers Harriman, and he also rejected an offer from G. H. Walker and Company, his grandfather's private Wall Street banking firm. But enough was enough; Prescott Bush, a member of the board of directors of Dressen Industries, a Texas oil-drilling supply company, then intervened.

Prescott's old friend Henry Neil Mallon, Dressen's president (for whom George and Barbara later named their youngest son), was a sort of "surrogate and father confessor" to Prescott's children.6 Mallon offered the well-bred young Yalie a lowly clerkship at Ideco, a Dressen subsidiary, in Odessa, Texas (somewhere, as most easterners might have thought, between Kennebunkport and the moon). The booming oil industry looked good, however, and—like millions of other veterans who were pulling up their roots— George H. W. Bush seized the opportunity to begin a new life. Save for a brief transfer to California, the patrician New Englander was to make the rest of his business career—and the beginnings of his political life—in flourishing, boastful Texas.

Bravely, optimistically, he drove south in the new Studebaker his father had given him as a graduation gift, to a new and promising life. "Bar," as Bush always called his wife, and George junior waited at the Walker's Point estate in Kennebunkport until George found a house for them in Odessa—half of a divided "shotgun" structure, with a shared bathroom, on East Seventh Street. They flew to Texas, not only to a different life but to a strange land—drilling rigs, the smell of oil everywhere, and a culture of young would- be entrepreneurs, among whom there was a kind of classless, fences-down comradeship not common among wealthier, more privileged families in the East, even Bushes and Walkers. Above all, however, postwar Texas was perfumed with the sweet scent of opportunity.

George Bush, though he took to his Ideco duties readily enough, was not long in following that scent. Why not, with his connections? At first he had little status—as a rich-kid hired hand from the East, not yet in the promising lease-and-drill business. But, as always, he made friends quickly, and lots of them—with one of whom, a more experienced neighbor named John Overbey, he soon formed Bush-Overbey Oil Development Company. The new firm was partially financed by Brown Brothers, and old George H. Walker himself put in five hundred thousand dollars; other investors, reassured by Prescott Bush's senatorial stature, included Eugene Meyer, publisher of the Washington Post. Prescott's son was on his way—no longer a mere wage worker but part owner of a new player in the sky's-the-limit Texas oil game.

Bush-Overbey did well, and things were beginning to look up for the transplanted Bushes in their intriguing new world, when three-year-old Robin Bush, the little family's secondborn, was diagnosed in 1953 with incurable leukemia. Barbara Bush and the distraught father—probably never before, or at least since his two hours on a raft in the Pacific, faced with a situation about which he could do nothing—still tried to do what they could. They provided Robin with the best medical care in Texas and New York; they tried experimental drugs; they authorized a last-hope surgery—but none of it worked. Robin died a few weeks short of her fourth birthday.

At first it seemed that Barbara Bush could not survive the blow. Though she had suffered Robin's illness in stoic silence, her daughter's death seemed, finally, too much. So lost was she in her grief that she appeared not to want to go on. In later years she often said that, in those terrible times, George Bush saved her—with his never-ending faith and optimism, his assurances that life had to go on, his ability to keep moving, go ahead. Life was still good, he believed, and it was certainly for the living.

Typically, when they came back from the East and Robin's death to Midland, Texas (where, after their brief side assignment to California, they'd moved, into a boxlike house in a tract called Easter Egg Row), George Bush took his wife first to their friends' houses, scattered around town, to thank them for their help and concern during Robin's illness.7

•••
B It's impossible for parents completely to get over the death of a child. But recovering from Robin's death was easier (though never easy) for George Bush than for his wife, because at about that time he was moving beyond Bush-Overbey. He'd been making friends with one of the boldest and brightest wannabe entrepreneurs in the Texas oil patch—Hugh Lietke Jr.—a Harvard Business School graduate and the son of a well-connected oil-company lawyer in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Lietke saw in Bush, if not a lot of business experience, the great virtue of access to eastern money. And both were willing to take risks—at that time the name of the game in the Texas oil business.

Lietke raised half a million dollars, Bush-Overbey put in the same, and they merged into a single company called Zapata Petroleum—after the Mexican revolutionary portrayed by Marlon Brando in a movie then being shown in Midland. Bush was Zapata's vice president, and half the money had come from his and his family's connections, but contemporary observers in Texas never doubted that Hugh Lietke, with his brains and experience, made most of the decisions.

Whoever deserves the credit, one of those decisions led to a ten-strike. Zapata laid out $850,000—close to its total capital—to lease a huge stretch of land in Coke County, to the east of which Sun Oil had producing wells. If the oil pool Sun was tapping extended to the west, Zapata might have a winner. If it didn't—well, risk was the name of the game. But betting nearly everything in one plunge, as Zapata had done, was unusual even in those days in Texas. The partners, moreover, had to put down at least another hundred thousand dollars to drill their first well. If it didn't come in...but it did.

So did the next well they drilled. And the next. They drilled seventy-one holes in the Coke County lease—and every one poured black gold out of the Texas earth. By the end of 1953 Zapata was pumping more than a thousand barrels of oil a day, worth at the time more than a million dollars a year. Later even more wells produced even more oil, and the Zapata partners became the first Midland independents to reach a net worth of one million dollars apiece.

John Overbey was not one of them. Hardly a corporate type, he had dropped out of Zapata before the Coke County wells brought in their gushers of wealth (but of course he and George Bush—ever loyal to an old friend—remained close). Newly flush, Bush expanded, investing some of his Zapata gains in a partnership that opened a new business, the Commercial Bank and Trust Company. For his family, money meant a succession of new and bigger houses and what was probably the first backyard swimming pool anybody in the Midland crowd ever had built—a great place for George Bush's many friends to gather at the end of a hot and profitable Texas day.8

Bush's career as an entrepreneur continued to flourish with Zapata Petroleum during the 1950s—but underneath financial success he was suffering the gnawing feeling, perhaps bred of Prescott Bush's teachings and example, that he should be giving something back, doing something for the community that was so richly rewarding him.

That attitude had little to do with the division of Zapata in 1958; the problem, if there was one, was more nearly that Hugh Lietke was interested in production and corporate acquisitions while Bush preferred the more adventurous, risk-taking aspects of the oil business. So the 1958 split was a natural. They spun off a second company, called Zapata Offshore, to dig wells in the ocean floor; and George Bush—who believed that undersea drilling was where the future lay—bought the new firm from his partners, became its president, and moved to Houston.

The remains of the original Zapata Petroleum continued to prosper mightily; Hugh Lietke eventually controlled Pennzoil. But most of the eastern money and influence Bush had brought to Texas went with him to Zapata Offshore. G. H. Walker & Company underwrote most of Offshore's public offerings. Its legal work was done by Endicott Davison, a Skull and Bonesman with George Bush at Yale in 1948. Even the Texas company that underwrote the initial stock issue, Underwood, Neuhaus, had an old Andover classmate, Robert Parish, on its staff. And when a Gulf hurricane blew away one of Offshore's three- million-dollar oil rigs,* G. H. Walker and Company quietly handled the financial side of the matter back east. On the scene in Houston, George Bush proved a competent manager—and, in his usual pattern, made lots of new friends, some of them influential.

On its fifth anniversary, Offshore was listed on the American Stock Exchange and had attracted twenty- two hundred stockholders. The company occupied offices in the Houston Club building, had a fleet of four monster drilling rigs, employed 195 people, carried an impressive load of debt, and enjoyed plenty of business either under way or pending9—including operations on Cay Sal Bank in the eastern Gulf of Mexico, once leased by Howard Hughes. Meanwhile, not least as a result of the huge social and political migrations in which George Bush had participated, Texas was metamorphosing from safely Democratic into something approaching a two-party state.*

Governor Allan Shivers had led a "Democrats for Eisenhower" movement in 1952, and Texas was one of five southern states Ike carried that year. The growth of the Texas GOP—fueled by oil wealth, the influx of outsiders, and the state's basically conservative electorate—continued in the fifties. By 1961, when Lyndon Johnson abandoned his Senate seat to become vice president of the United States, Texas elected John Tower as his replacement—the state's first Republican senator since Reconstruction.

In that special election Tower had benefited from being the only Republican in the field with seventy- five Democrats, including Bing Crosby's father-in-law. Texas Democrats also were somewhat complacent, sure they could defeat Tower one-on-one in the regular election of 1962 if he managed to win in 1961. As things turned out, he survived both elections and went on to win three more terms, and to be nominated for secretary of defense by President George H. W. Bush in 1989.

A signal part of the Texas party's growth, however, was an archconservative sector in the image of, and deeply devoted to, Barry Goldwater, the guru of the swiftly emerging national conservative movement. When the Harris County (Houston) Republican chairman moved to Florida in 1962, the right-wing John Birch Society was strong enough to threaten a takeover of the county Republican committee. That's when leading Harris County Republicans asked the prosperous businessman and popular Houston resident George Bush to run for the chairmanship; and that's when Prescott Bush's restless son saw the opportunity for community service that he'd been seeking—never mind that Zapata Offshore required of him as much management effort as one man could reasonably handle.

Bush proved a roaring success, the hardest-working chairman Harris County Republicans ever had seen. He was enthusiastic and optimistic, raised money, organized precincts, brought in recruits, found volunteers, computerized the voter rolls, moved the committee to better quarters, and stayed right on top of the paperwork. In his new role he again made lots of new friends; women Republicans especially liked his good looks, his unfailing courtesy. Under Bush's committee leadership, the party even elected Houston's first Republican city councilman.

Everything Chairman Bush touched seemed to succeed—except that he could never win the Birchers' friendship, hard as he tried, not even when he named some of them to leadership positions in the county. He was too eastern, too Yale, too moderate, the epitome of everything Barry Goldwater was not—or so the Birchers were convinced. In 1963, nevertheless, Bush saw the kind of tempting opportunity that might offer him a political success similar to Offshore's in business; he determined to seek the Republican nomination to run in 1964 against Texas's senior senator—the old populist liberal Ralph Yarborough.

Bush believed that Yarborough was out of touch with a Texas grown more conservative since the senator's last election. Owing to Bush's own labors among Republicans, he also believed that the state was tired of the old man. Even Lyndon Johnson was believed to have little use for Yarborough. And with Goldwater given a good chance to be nominated for president and to carry Texas for the Republicans, he might well bring in an attractive Republican senate candidate on his coattails. All in all a race against Ralph Yarborough looked like a pretty good bet for a young man—Bush would be only forty in 1964—who was obviously going places.

He threw himself without stint into a four-candidate Republican primary, helped by the zealous work of his wife and eldest son, George W.—eighteen years old in 1964—and by all those Houston volunteers he had organized and led so enthusiastically. Bush was a poor speaker with a tinny voice—but he was a splendid handshaker, backslapper, and fresh face, a man never too busy or too tired, moreover, to dash off dozens of thank-you notes daily (probably thousands by the end of the campaign) to anyone who'd helped him in even the smallest way. He was piling up new friendships almost faster than they could be recorded in the card file Barbara Bush relentlessly kept up to date.

Even as a relative newcomer to Texas—naturally Yarborough and Republican primary opponents called him a carpetbagger—Bush led the primary with a plurality, then defeated his main rival in a runoff in which he took more than 60 percent of the vote. That, of course, was only among registered Republicans, of whom there were not yet too many in Texas. Bush not only had still to take on Yarborough himself; he had to confront the uncomfortable fact that Goldwater probably couldn't win Texas after all—because Lyndon Johnson had become president, succeeding the murdered John F. Kennedy, and there was no doubt that LBJ, the master of Texas politics, would be at the top of the Democratic ticket in 1964.

Back in Connecticut, Prescott Bush—retired from the Senate since 1962—was one of those Eisenhower Republicans itching to knock Goldwater out of the Republican running and rescue their party from its fire- breathing right wing. Prescott Bush and other Eisenhower Republicans first favored Nelson Rockefeller of New York, then William Scranton of Pennsylvania—anyone, in fact, but AUH2O (as Goldwater's bumper stickers proclaimed him). Down in Texas, however, George Bush—the Republican Senate nominee but also a relative newcomer from the East, a Yalie, and maybe even an internationalist—realized that if his own father came out publicly against Goldwater, all those Texas right-wingers never reconciled to the son would be newly angered and aroused.

So Prescott Bush received an anguished phone call from George Bush—and thereafter Prescott remained loyally silent, doing nothing throughout 1964 to stop his party from nominating Barry Goldwater for president (to be fair, Dwight Eisenhower himself did little more). In Texas, Bush had recognized that he would sink or swim with Goldwater at the top of the national Republican ticket—and he was neither willing to sink nor at a loss about how to swim. He moved almost as far to the right as was Goldwater himself, then staged another fighting, handshaking, note-writing campaign, visiting more than half of Texas's 254 counties (in most of which no Republican organization existed). The supposed eastern moderate one-worlder opposed the Civil Rights Act of 1964, just passed by Congress under LBJ's unique pressures; he denounced the United Nations, deplored what he called the "soft" Democratic policy on the war in Vietnam, and argued against a nuclear test-ban treaty. Three years after the Bay of Pigs fiasco, he even proposed arming Cuban exiles for another go at Fidel Castro.

With a patrician sense of propriety, however, that might seem odd to those of a different background, Bush refused all suggestions that he talk about his wartime heroism. That would be bad form, contrary to the code of sportsmanship that Bush had learned from his grandfather, his mother, and his father, and at Andover: One did not boast about one's accomplishments.

Though Bush was still not much of a stump speaker and had no identifying "message" except the claim, endlessly repeated, that Yarborough was a proven giveaway artist, a liberal out of step with Texas, his campaign—featuring country music, barbecue, a determinedly folksy candidate, and stump speeches from Goldwater and Richard Nixon—clearly was not hopeless, not at first, anyway. Then President Lyndon Johnson, who had little love for Ralph Yarborough but even less for John Tower, and who was determined that his home state would not have two Republican senators, swept into Texas, rolled out the political power he had been stockpiling for thirty years, and gathered even Yarborough into his fulsome embrace. In the end, on his way to a national landslide, LBJ took 63 percent of the Texas presidential vote and easily carried Ralph Yarborough back to the Senate. George Bush could take comfort only from the fact that his creditable 44 percent, though swamped by Johnson's huge majority, represented the most votes any Republican had ever won in Texas.

In his book Looking Forward Bush does not even mention his right-wing, Goldwaterish performance in 1964, remarking only that his "was the kind of campaign not generally identified with Republican candidates, a leaf taken from the old Texas populist book."10 In the days following his defeat, however, Bush told his minister in Houston, "I took some far-right positions to get elected. I hope I never do it again. I regret it."11 The sincerity of this resolve was to be tested again and again in the years to come—years that found George Bush, the successful oilman, devoting himself almost fully to politics and government.

The greatest irony of 1964 may have been that even his taking those "far-right positions" didn't win the John Birchers over to George Bush, any more than his Reaganesque attitudes during his presidency, 1989— 93, were to convince conservatives of that later era that he was one of them. In 1964, the Birchers thought they knew a "moderate" when they saw one, no matter what he might be saying to win votes. So they sat on their hands during Bush's campaign and took a walk on election day. Better even Ralph Yarborough than an easterner—probably a closet internationalist to boot.

If luck seemed to have deserted George Bush when Johnson was sworn in as president within an hour of Kennedy's death, Bush's political fortunes were quickly reversed after 1964. As Harris County Republican chairman in 1963, he had filed suit for a redrawing of the county's congressional districts, basing the case on the Supreme Court's one-man, one-vote decision. National population shifts also had enlarged the Texas congressional entitlement. So a new Houston district was created for 1966—white, wealthy, with few Hispanic or black voters but including a lot of newcomers to Texas. Reflecting his changed personal priorities—politics over business—Bush sold his share of Zapata Offshore for more than one million dollars and filed for the seat.

As the Republican candidate who had done well in the losing cause against LBJ and Ralph Yarborough, Bush had good "name recognition" and rather easily won the House seat in a contest with Houston's Democratic district attorney, Frank Briscoe—who made the mistake of calling his opponent a carpetbagger in a district full of carpetbaggers. But even with Bush's gifts for friendship, his indexed filing cases of friends, and the advantages of the new constituency, the new congressman was not solely responsible for his victory. In 1966 a new tide was running, led nationally by Richard Nixon. Republicans rebounded from the Goldwater debacle of two years earlier, taking sixty-six House seats—including the new Houston Seventh. There, both Nixon and House Republican leader Gerald Ford had campaigned personally for that promising newcomer—Prescott Bush's son George.

(The 1966 results, not incidentally, paved the way for Nixon's nomination and comeback presidential campaign in 1968, and thus indirectly—as will be seen—for George Bush's own national political career.) Rather inexplicably Bush recorded in Looking Forward that "a disappointing aspect" of the 1966 vote was "my being swamped in the black precincts, despite...an all-out effort to attract black voters."12 Can he have forgotten that he had opposed the Civil Rights Act of 1964 in his right-wing campaign against Ralph Yarborough? Or did he believe that blacks should know that a Yale-educated candidate of good family could not be racially biased and was for them in his heart, no matter how political circumstances might have forced him to vote?

In other ways the Seventh District campaign yielded political connections to match the family position Bush already had. As one of forty-seven freshman Republicans in the House, he managed a coup— membership on the important Ways and Means Committee, an impossible feat for most rookies and unknowns without a father who'd served in the Senate. Otherwise his first term was undistinguished except for his typically hard work for his constituents and his assiduous courting of even the least among them (the name cards kept piling up in Barbara's files).

In 1968 he scored a politician's dream—reelection unopposed, in some ways a reward for his good record. Almost as important, Nixon—Bush's benefactor in 1964 and 1966—moved into the White House in early 1969. Bush's name even turned up on a leaked shortlist of those Nixon supposedly was considering as his vice presidential choice (which doesn't necessarily mean that Bush was actually a serious contender, or a contender at all; but the mere report helped along his embryonic political career). Nixon later told him, "I really couldn't pick a one-term congressman."13

Bush had, however, near the end of his first term, when he knew he would have no opponent for 1968, cast one controversial vote—in favor of one of the last gasps of Lyndon Johnson's Great Society, an open- housing bill.* Though he'd expected criticism, the uproar of surprise and anger in his wealthy white district surprised him. The backlash couldn't hurt him in 1968, since he was running unopposed—but that vote would not be forgotten in Houston and Texas.

In 1970 it was one of the reasons Bush's luck turned bad again. That year, he was pondering whether to give up his safe House seat and take on Senator Yarborough a second time. A foolish move? Actually there seemed little risk. Bush was popular, a leader of the emerging Texas Republican Party; Yarborough really had outstayed his Texas welcome by 1970; and, anyway, Richard Nixon told Bush in urging him to run that he'd be considered for a high-level administration job in the unlikely event he should lose.

Even former President Johnson, his old antipathy to Ralph Yarborough apparently aroused again, gave Bush veiled encouragement. The congressman had had the good sense—and political perspicacity—to go to Andrews Air Force Base to see Johnson off to Texas when LBJ left the presidency in 1969. Now Bush called at the LBJ Ranch and asked Johnson, not if he'd support him, but if he thought Bush should give up the House seat for a Senate run.

LBJ replied that he'd served in the House and the Senate, that he wouldn't advise Bush what to do, but he would say that "the difference between being a member of the Senate and a member of the House is the difference between chicken salad and chicken shit." After this typically Johnsonian, only slightly Delphic remark, he asked: "Do I make my point?"14

With everything looking so promising, Bush not unnaturally opted for chicken salad and filed for the Senate race. But he was to be handed, in LBJ's graphic description, a plate of chicken shit. Old Senator Yarborough lost his party's primary to a more conservative Democrat, a former congressman named Lloyd Bentsen—a protégé of Governor John Connally (who was still a Democrat in 1970) and a man Lyndon Johnson could and did openly support. Suddenly, his bridges burned, George Bush no longer had an elderly, worn-out opponent, a "liberal giveaway artist." Instead he faced a tough, vigorous, conservative Democrat in what was still mostly a conservative Democratic state. He was no longer likely to go to the Senate his father once had graced, and he had given up even the prospect of going back to the House.

Nevertheless, with his usual zeal and enthusiasm, Bush pitched headlong into the race against Bentsen—this time positioning himself to the left of his opponent (despite his earlier pledge to that minister not to take positions again just to get votes). He ran as the more liberal of the two candidates, even reaching out to blacks and Hispanics, building on the open-housing vote.

He may have had little choice, but the tactic was questionable anyway. Bush was no longer running in his familiar Houston district but statewide—in a state in which more whites were opposed to or suspicious of open housing and liberalism than minorities were for them. Those who'd voted for Ralph Yarborough in the primary remembered how Bush had savaged the old man in 1964, and most stayed with Bentsen. Nixon came to Texas in full cry and skewered the Democrats—dooming any Bush hope for a crossover vote. Bentsen tabbed him repeatedly as "a liberal Ivy League carpetbagger," and this time the charge struck a damaging note in Texas—and stuck to Bush for years. Representative Jim Wright, Democrat of Texas and Speaker of the House, once mocked Bush at a Gridiron Club dinner as "the only Texan...who eats lobster with his chili" and "had a downhome quiche cook-off."15

Even so Bush went down fighting, bettering his 1964 vote percentage; but 46 percent was still not good enough. Bentsen went to the Senate, ultimately to a vice presidential candidacy and to become secretary of the treasury under President Bill Clinton. George Bush was not to win an election on his own for another eighteen years. Barbara Bush and the family wept; but George went right back to work, phoning and writing to those who had helped him.

There were a lot of people to be thanked, a lot of new friends, a good sign for the future if you were as optimistic as George Bush usually was. But on the sad night when the votes were counted in 1970, even he must have realized that little remained of what had been a surging political career—except Richard Nixon's pledge of a job in the national administration.

*To avoid confusion, all references to "Bush" or "George Bush" in this book will be to George H. W. Bush, the forty-first president. His son, the forty-third president, will be referred to as "George W. Bush," "George junior," or, occasionally, "Junior."

*One of whom, daughter Robin, died in 1953 at the age of three.

As recounted in Buckley's God and Man at Yale (Chicago: Regnery, 1951).

*Three-legged, weighing nine million pounds each, and built by R. G. LeTourneau of Vicksburg, Mississippi. Bush, Looking Forward, pp. 70—71.

*Cay Sal Bank was reportedly sometimes used as a base for CIA raids into Castro's Cuba. In 1981, when Bush became vice president of the United States, all Securities and Exchange Commission filings for Zapata Offshore, 1960— 66, were destroyed.

*To prevent housing discrimination against blacks and others by real estate agents and landlords

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